I tried for a smile. “Percy Jackson, my blessings upon you! I am in need of assistance.”
Percy’s eyes darted from me to Meg. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Meg McCaffrey,” I said, “a demigod who must be taken to Camp Half-Blood. She rescued me from street thugs.”
“Rescued…” Percy scanned my battered face. “You mean the ‘beat-up teenager’ look isn’t just a disguise? Dude, what happened to you?”
“I may have mentioned the street thugs.”
“But you’re a god.”
“About that…I was a god.”
Percy blinked. “Was?”
“Also,” I said, “I’m fairly certain we’re being followed by malicious spirits.”
If I didn’t know how much Percy Jackson adored me, I would have sworn he was about to punch me in my already-broken nose.
He sighed. “Maybe you two should come inside.”
Casa de Jackson
No gold-plated throne for guests
Seriously, dude?
ANOTHER THING I have never understood: How can you mortals live in such tiny places? Where is your pride? Your sense of style?
The Jackson apartment had no grand throne room, no colonnades, no terraces or banquet halls or even a thermal bath. It had a tiny living room with an attached kitchen and a single hallway leading to what I assumed were the bedrooms. The place was on the fifth floor, and while I wasn’t so picky as to expect an elevator, I did find it odd there was no landing deck for flying chariots. What did they do when guests from the sky wanted to visit?
Standing behind the kitchen counter, making a smoothie, was a strikingly attractive mortal woman of about forty. Her long brown hair had a few gray streaks, but her bright eyes, quick smile, and festive tie-dyed sundress made her look younger.
As we entered, she turned off the blender and stepped out from behind the counter.
“Sacred Sibyl!” I cried. “Madam, there is something wrong with your midsection!”
The woman stopped, mystified, and looked down at her hugely swollen belly. “Well, I’m seven months pregnant.”
I wanted to cry for her. Carrying such a weight didn’t seem natural. My sister, Artemis, had experience with midwifery, but I had always found it one area of the healing arts best left to others. “How can you bear it?” I asked. “My mother, Leto, suffered through a long pregnancy, but only because Hera cursed her. Are you cursed?”
Percy stepped to my side. “Um, Apollo? She’s not cursed. And can you not mention Hera?”
“You poor woman.” I shook my head. “A goddess would never allow herself to be so encumbered. She would give birth as soon as she felt like it.”
“That must be nice,” the woman agreed.
Percy Jackson coughed. “So anyway. Mom, this is Apollo and his friend Meg. Guys, this is my mom.”
The Mother of Jackson smiled and shook our hands. “Call me Sally.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied my busted nose. “Dear, that looks painful. What happened?”
I attempted to explain, but I choked on my words. I, the silver-tongued god of poetry, could not bring myself to describe my fall from grace to this kind woman.
I understood why Poseidon had been so smitten with her. Sally Jackson possessed just the right combination of compassion, strength, and beauty. She was one of those rare mortal women who could connect spiritually with a god as an equal—to be neither terrified of us nor greedy for what we can offer, but to provide us with true companionship.
If I had still been an immortal, I might have flirted with her myself. But I was now a sixteen-year-old boy. My mortal form was working its way upon my state of mind. I saw Sally Jackson as a mom—a fact that both consternated and embarrassed me. I thought about how long it had been since I had called my own mother. I should probably take her to lunch when I got back to Olympus.
“I tell you what.” Sally patted my shoulder. “Percy can help you get bandaged and cleaned up.”
“I can?” asked Percy.
Sally gave him the slightest motherly eyebrow raise. “There’s a first-aid kit in your bathroom, sweetheart. Apollo can take a shower, then wear your extra clothes. You two are about the same size.”
“That,” Percy said, “is truly depressing.”
Sally cupped her hand under Meg’s chin. Thankfully, Meg did not bite her. Sally’s expression remained gentle and reassuring, but I could see the worry in her eyes. No doubt she was thinking, Who dressed this poor girl like a traffic light?
“I have some clothes that might fit you, dear,” Sally said. “Pre-pregnancy clothes, of course. Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we’ll get you something to eat.”
“I like food,” Meg muttered.